


Boxing Day

by Sanj



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-07 07:13:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5447834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sanj/pseuds/Sanj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Invite me inside, Zimms." Kent lifts his chin in the direction of the door. "We're gonna try this again."</p><p>Jack sighs. Why the hell not. It's Christmastime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boxing Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxxcub](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxxcub/gifts).



_December 26, 2014_  
  
Jack is at his parents' home in Westmount on the day after Christmas, blissfully alone after a Christmas of charity teas and Zimmermann cousins. He's got Bittle's chocolate chip cookies, a big glass of milk, and _For King and Empire_ remastered on Blu-ray.  
  
Bittle's cookies taste like butter and chocolate, and also somehow like they're warm from the oven despite having flown from Logan to Dorval. (Or Trudeau, whatever they're calling it now.) Jack lets himself enjoy them. Nobody's here to see. He savors them in tiny bites while he watches the Canadians join the Allies at Ypres Salient.  
  
It may not be traditional Christmas viewing, but something in the back of Jack's neck relaxes a little, anyway.  
  
_Happy Boxing Day_ , he texts the team, mainly because he knows everyone except for Ransom will chirp him about it. Which they do. He grins.  
  
And then the doorbell rings. Jack sighs, pauses the video, and checks through the window on his way to the door. There's an obnoxious red Lamborghini parked sideways in the drive.  Jack clenches his fists, breathes in for a count of eight, relaxes them again.  
  
It's Kent. Of course.

Kent Parson is standing on Jack's front porch with a cardboard cup holder and a bag of what are probably croissants from Angelique's.  
  
Jack opens the door, unable to even identify the fifteen things he's feeling at seeing Kent's ridiculous face outside his parents' home.  
  
"Did your mom go with Bob to Toronto?" Parse asks when Jack opens the door. "Her car's not here."  
  
"Aunt Cynthia's," Jack explains, bemused. "Boxing Day tea."  
  
"Huh," says Parse. He hands Jack the presumptive croissants and a coffee cup. "Americano. Unless you want the skinny mocha." Off Jack's skeptical look, Parse shrugs and takes the second drink for himself.  
  
"That was for my mom," Jack objects. And, "What are you doing here?"  
  
"It's just gonna get cold," Parse says, unapologetic as fucking always. "And I drove up from Rochester because, whatever. Canadians do Boxing Day better, does that work for you? I wanted to talk to you."  
  
Crisse. "Kent --"  
  
"Invite me inside, Zimms." Kent lifts his chin in the direction of the door. "We're gonna try this again."  
  
Jack sighs. Why the hell not. It's Christmas. He holds the door open and lets Parse inside, gestures him to the kitchen. He doesn't want him in the living room. Jack just made that space comfortable and he's not inclined to share. They stare at each other across the kitchen island and drink coffee like it's a face-off.  
  
"This tastes like shit," Kent complains, frowning at his drink.  "She's not a supermodel anymore, she can have cream, fuck."  
  
"Old habits," Jack shrugs.  
  
"Speaking of which." Kent takes a deep breath. "I was an asshole. I'm sorry."  
  
"You'll have to be more specific," Jack says, pleased with himself that his voice is steady.  
  
Kent stares at him for a minute. That's not in their script. "Yeah, okay. I was a major asshole last Saturday. Kind of like how you were a major asshole last year. I shouldn't have run you down like that."  
  
"And you shouldn't have said my team was shitty," Jack says, because Kent can say what he wants about Jack, of course he can. But he can't take Jack's team down with him.  
  
"And I'm sorry I said your team was shitty," Kent responds dutifully.  
  
"Especially since we're going to win the NCAA this year," Jack prompts, because hey, there's a solid chance if the new defensive line pulls it together.  
  
"Especially since you and your camera-ready college crew are probably gonna win all the hockey. Okay?"  
  
Wait. What the -- "Parse. You are not jealous of me."  
  
"No, I'm not, Zimms." Parse rearranges his cap on his head, an old nervous tell. "You do you. I've got a Cup ring, I'm good."

It has the sound of a mantra. He knows Parse too well. "You're lonely," Jack realizes, only half aware he's saying it out loud.  
  
"Well. We can't all be dating your eavesdropping winger," Kent shoots back. "Or can we? Because he has a really nice ass."  
  
"He does," Jack says, because apparently he doesn't have a filter anymore. "I mean. I know you're talking about Bittle. But we aren't. Um. Dating."  
  
Parse frowns. "Why the fuck not?"  
  
"Tabarnak de calisse, Parse, I don't fucking know. And I can't have this discussion with you." Jack snatches at the bag of croissants, puts them in the breadbox. Slams it a little.  
  
"Wait." Parse puts his hand on Jack's arm, lays it gently like a lover. "Wait, Jack. I'm sorry. I didn't come to fight."  
  
He'd driven five hours across an international border to come apologize. Right. "Apology accepted. What else did you want?"  
  
"I want us to be friends again, Jack. Seriously."  
  
"We're not -- we're friends," Jack says, because the first boy he ever kissed, who happens to also have been the boy who saved his life when he was in a pool of his own vomit -- of course he's friends with that person. Even if that person is also an obnoxious, pushy, competitive, fils-de-salaud asshole. "Seriously. And I do miss you," he says, because that's true, because Kent was the one part of his old life he wishes he could have back.  
  
"I miss you like fuck," Parse says, "and even if you don't want to play hockey with me --"  
  
"I do want to play hockey with you," Jack says, almost surprising himself with how much he means it. "I always will want to play hockey with you."  
  
"Oh." And Kent smiles a little, that crooked little smile that Jack still loves and wants to kiss.  
  
"But," Jack continues, watching the smile fade, "there's no way I'm going to Vegas. You've got a great center in Abrams, it's in the middle of the desert, and I do not want to live anywhere with that much nightlife, Christ, Kenny, I'm in recovery."  
  
Parse considers this, takes another swig of his apparently terrible mocha, makes a face. "We have suburbs."  
  
"Which are still in the desert. I'll play if I get traded there, obviously, but while I get my pick, the Aces are absolutely the wrong team for me, and you know it."  
  
Parse seems to actually think about this. "Yeah, okay," he says after a while. "And I'm not moving to fucking Rhode Island. Shoot myself first."  
  
Jack remembers running along the Narragansett coast, a couple of weeks ago, and George's confident support during the meetings he's had in Providence. "It's really nice, actually."  
  
"You're really going to go with them, aren't you." It's not a question -- it's more resigned than that.  
  
"It's a good fit," Jack says. "I mean, I haven't decided yet, but I do hear a good player can make a real name for himself on an expansion team."  
  
"Shyeah," Kent says, and he smiles his crooked smile again. They drink their drinks and dissect the Wings vs. the Leafs' chances for the Winter Classic. "Leafs ought to pack it in now," is Parse's opinion, so Jack stands up for them just on patriotic principle, despite their massive drought. "You'd say blue if I said pink," Kent says finally, his voice fond.  
  
Jack shrugs, because yeah, that's not news.  
  
"Come back to my hotel room with me," Kent says, like Jack knew he would eventually. "It's swank. Jacuzzi."  
  
"Stay here a while," Jack counteroffers. "Maman would love to see you."  
  
"Yeah, I'd like to see her, too, but --" he leans back against the fridge in a pose, insouciant. "I'd rather blow you. Where she can't walk in."  
  
"That's ... not what this is," Jack says slowly, ignoring the full-body flush that tells him that is exactly what this is. "We said friends, Parse, I'm not --"  
  
"You said you weren't seeing anybody." Parse looks puzzled. Which, fair point: Jack is saying no to sloppy kissing. Blowjobs in a safely anonymous hotel room. Maybe pulling Kent's legs over his shoulder and fucking him until they're both stupid with it. "So come back to my room with me and we can have break-up sex like regular people."  
  
"Kenny --"  
  
"Closure, Zimms. Come on."  
  
Jack crosses the room, takes hold of Kent's face, leans in and kisses him long and slow.  Kent kisses him back, tries to push Jack gently back toward the counter.  
  
Jack slides his fingers onto Kent's lips, a pause. "I meant what I said at Samwell, Kenny," he says, letting himself tuck Kent's hair behind his ear. "I love you. I'm always going to love you. But I can't do this anymore."  
  
"I'm not sure I know how to just be friends with you," Kent says quietly, looking down at the floor.  "I mean, I can try. But."  
  
"We're kind of terrible for each other," Jack whispers into his hair.  
  
"Fuck, I know," Kent says. "We're awesome. And terrible." Kent leans in and kisses him one last time. "Merry Christmas, you gorgeous jackass. Text me some time. Say hi to your folks."  
  
"Tell your mom Merry Christmas," Jack says. "Love you."  
  
"You, too."  
  
Parse walks away quietly, for once; no parting shot, no coda.

 

*****

  
_December 26, 2015_  
  
Jack's phone buzzes on his bedside table. He carefully slides out from under Bitty's head on his chest, and leans over to look at the text. _Happy Boxing Day, O Canada. Nice goal tonight._  
  
_Thanks. You still stuck in Vegas?_ he texts back.  
  
_Flew the fandambly out for my inevitable victory tomorrow,_ Parse replies.  
  
_Don't get cocky, Ace, the Sharks actually know what they're doing._  
  
_You fly your boy up for the game?_  
  
_He's here now,_ Jack responds.  
  
_Don't let me interrupt you. :)_  
  
"Yeah," Bitty says in his ear. "Don't let him interrupt you."  
  
_Bittle says Merry Christmas,_ Jack types. _Go get 'em tomorrow._ He turns back to Bitty, who's looking at him like a sunbeam, a miracle of a boy tucked into his bed, warm skin against his own.  
  
A lot can happen in a year, he thinks. And lets himself smile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Foxxcub asked for a story about Bitty's jealousy after the Epikegster. This is what came out instead... I hope it serves!


End file.
